


hours in this midnight

by Lake (beyond_belief)



Category: Triple Frontier (2019)
Genre: Hotel Sex, Intercrural Sex, M/M, Pre-Canon, Soul Bond
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-02-24
Updated: 2020-02-24
Packaged: 2021-02-28 07:15:47
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,912
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/22869985
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/beyond_belief/pseuds/Lake
Summary: Whatever they'd contracted out there in the rainforest - brought back, brought to life, whatever it is - Santiago doesn't regret it, because there's nothing in it to regret.
Relationships: Tom "Redfly" Davis/Santiago "Pope" Garcia
Comments: 1
Kudos: 11





	hours in this midnight

"We can't go back like this," Tom says. He's sitting on the edge of the bed with his elbows balanced on his knees and his head resting on one hand, not exactly looking at Santiago but not _not_ looking at him, either. 

"Suppose it's a good thing we're in country another few weeks, then." Santiago rests a hand on Tom's back. This is just a shitty little hotel room, a hole in the wall sort of place, with threadbare sheets and a corner stand-up shower in the bathroom, even more threadbare towels hanging from a pipe. They've been coming here for months now, between missions. It's few enough times that Santiago could count them on less than all his fingers, but the echo of Tom in his mind is always there. That's the part he knows Tom means, about all this. Not the fucking.

"What if it -" Tom starts, but stops his own words. Santiago walks his fingers a few inches up Tom's spine. His skin is damp with sweat, but the room is sticky-warm, and they're all of them damp with sweat most of the time. "I can't go back to my family with you in my head like this, Pope."

"I don't know what you want me to say." Santiago sits up and presses his mouth to Tom's shoulder, tasting salt. "I didn't _ask_ for it."

"I know." Tom sighs and leans back, turning at the same time to settle on top of Santiago, his knees on either side of Santiago's thighs. 

"It's all right for now, yeah?" Santiago asks, sliding a hand around the back of Tom's neck to pull him closer, close enough to brush their mouths together. He can feel it when the heat flares inside of Tom, and the answering surge of warmth inside his own chest. Whatever they'd contracted out there in the rainforest - brought back, brought to life, whatever it is - he doesn't regret it, because there's nothing in it to regret. It weighs on Tom, though, he knows. 

He opens his mouth under Tom's. Tom groans, putting more weight on him, and Santiago hooks his leg around Tom's and rocks up against him. 

The words trip suddenly from his mouth: "Don't hate me for saying I like it."

"You like it," Tom echoes. His fingers flex on Santiago's shoulder, then his face. He doesn't move away, and Santiago can feel the firm press of his erection through the pairs of cargo shorts they're both wearing. "What does that mean, Pope?"

"Means I like it." 

Tom shakes his head but doesn't say anything. Santiago takes the opportunity to kiss him again, cupping his hand loosely around the back of Tom's neck. He does like it. Craves the feeling, almost. It's selfish and Santiago knows it. Tom has a family back home, responsibilities, things he can't just ignore. 

That doesn't mean he doesn't want Tom to ignore them, deep in that corner of his soul he tries to pretend isn't full of the things he secretly craves. 

He pushes at the bond, feeling it expand in his chest, feeling it flutter and buzz. Tom shudders. "Don't, Santi," he breathes, even as he rocks his hips down against Santiago's. Their skin catches and sticks, and Santiago thinks it would be almost painful if he didn't enjoy it so much.

"There's nobody here but us," Santiago replies. He slides his fingers up the back of Tom's skull to where his hair is just long enough to grasp, and tugs lightly, repeating, "Nobody but us."

"I know, but -"

"Take your fucking pants off."

That gets a startled laugh out of Tom. He grinds his hips down against Santiago's. "I don't know, you've been talking about all that shit we don't talk about, not sure I should reward you for that."

Santiago rearranges his face into an expression of mock outrage, then asks, "How about I promise to be good from now on?"

"You, be good?" Tom ducks his head, scrapes his teeth over Santiago's neck. "That's not the same as following orders."

Santiago shivers at that and relaxes back, consciously, against the shitty mattress. The sheet catches slightly against the skin of his back; it would be uncomfortable if this wasn't exactly where he wanted to be right now. He squeezes the back of Tom's neck, gets another scrape of teeth in response. "Take your pants off," he repeats.

Tom clicks his tongue, but reaches between their bodies to unbutton first his shorts, then Santiago's. Then he licks his fingertips before he touches Santiago's cock. "Jesus, Tom," Santiago chokes out, startled, not expecting the split-second of coolness before the damp evaporates. He feels sweat run down over his temple. 

Tom nips at his collarbone. "Thought you were being good."

"I can be good," _and not talk about the shit we don't talk about_ , he echoes in his mind. The bond pulses warmly, making his palms tingle. 

"It doesn't matter what I want," Tom says in his ear, before he bites gently at the lobe. "What you want."

"God, shut the fuck up," Santiago hisses, a sudden wave of anger at being asked to draw lines crashing into him. But Tom just laughs and strokes light fingertips over Santiago's throbbing dick again, while whispering in his ear that if Pope wants it so bad, he should let him get on with it. 

It's too hot. Santiago feels like he did the first time he went through a jungle at Tom's shoulder, the air so thick that steam itself seemed to rise from the hacked-off foliage that they swung a machete through. "You just gonna tease, or what," he breathes. He rolls his hips, hoping for some friction, Tom's hand, something. Anything. "Come on, this isn't some fucking middle-school dance, you don't have to be polite, Captain."

Tom makes a sharp noise at that, and moves just far enough away to push his open shorts and boxers down and off. 

Santiago does the same, and quickly. Stripping off the remainder of his clothes doesn't answer the question of what they're going to do about the pulsing, shimmering knot in the center of Santiago's chest once they're Stateside again, but he figures if he's not going to get an answer out of Tom about that, he can at least have half an hour in in this shitty room with the loud sounds of the market and motorbike engines outside on the street. 

"We're on borrowed fucking time here," he reminds Tom, who raises both eyebrows and puts his hand over Santiago's mouth. Not hard, but his thumb presses against the hinge of Santiago's jaw. A bright hum flares all through his chest and a taste like ginger floods his mouth, something sweet-hot. He reaches downward and fits his hand around Tom's cock. Squeezes until Tom groans and lists toward him again, the bond humming louder at the sloppy kiss. 

"Turn over," Tom breathes, and barely moves away far enough to let Santiago do so on the narrow bed. The back of his neck feels exposed as he presses his burning face to the battered pillow. A second later and Tom's mouth ghosts over the skin. 

They've done this before. Santiago tilts his hips up slightly, then closes his thighs around the length of Tom's cock, sweat and probably Tom's spit easing the glide. His own cock is pressed between his belly and the worn sheet; the friction against the tip is almost painful, but the feeling bleeds right into everything else and pulses through his veins. Tom hitches up too high on the occasional thrust and Santiago can feel the heat of Tom's cock come closer to his hole, and the unintentional taunting pleasure of it makes feel like his eyes are rolling back, makes him shiver and sweat and mutter low into the pillow where he's clutching it. What he's even saying, he's not sure. 

"Pope." It's a gasp against the thin skin behind his ear. A hand skims over his back, then squeezes his ass. "What are we even - _fuck_ \- this is crazy, I…" The words drop out into a moan, and Tom bites his shoulder hard enough there'll be a mark later. Santiago feels Tom's whole body go rigid as he comes, then the wet heat dripping over his balls. Santiago groans at the feel of it, how _dirty_. His own dick twitches desperately, seeking release. 

Tom's draped over him, but it's a good heavy even in this temperature, a full-body press. Santiago finds himself almost shaking at how good it feels; he tries to memorize the sensation of it. He moves his hips experimentally and Tom groans for him to stop, it's too much, and then Tom peels himself away. The rush of air against his wet skin makes him shudder again; the world tilts sideways for a moment. Fuck, he'd _pay_ to feel like this forever.

"Turn over and I'll…" Tom says, sliding his palm over Santiago's aching dick. 

He lets Tom rearrange them quickly in the small space, pulls his knees up so Tom can crouch between them. "Yeah, come on, Tommy," he groans, putting a hand in Tom's hair, pulling Tom's mouth down to his cock. Tom looks up, meets his eyes. 

It doesn't take long at all. He grips Tom's head too tightly, but the bond sings bright and loud, and dimly Santiago thinks that Tom will forgive him the aching scalp. "Sorry," he sighs, when he can shape words again, and pets Tom's hair. 

"Yeah, I know you are," Tom murmurs against his hip. Santiago closes his eyes, stroking his thumb over Tom's cheek. "I know what you're thinking," Tom continues. "No, we can't stay here."

"Not _here_. This room is shit."

Tom laughs at that, but he sounds tired.

*

Tom's attempting to wipe them both off with the ruined sheet when here's a tinny, staticky sound: Tom's radio, a tangle of wires on the rusted folding chair next to the bed. Santiago sees the resigned expression that crosses Tom's face as he rolls away to reach for it. "Redfly three-eight-seven-four, ready to receive message," Santiago hears him say into the tiny microphone he cups in his palm.

Santiago sits up, feeling like he aches down to his bones, before putting his legs over the edge of the bed, and attempting to fish his shorts up off the tile without looking. He comes up with Tom's first, and drops them over his shoulder. A second later, he feels Tom's hand on his back. The voice on the other end of the radio is barely a mumble without the earpiece being closer, but Santiago figures it's Wolford, and he's probably dug up yet another narco he wants them to get eyes on. Another stinking muddy ditch is clearly in Santiago's future. 

"What about Valiente, and that one Bolivian fuck whose name I can't remember?" he hears Tom say in response, then another burst of static and dim reply from Wolford.

"Roger that. We'll be an hour. Out." 

Tom's hand flexes on his back, and Santiago turns a little to look at him. "Don't you ever think about what a fucking mess all of this is?" Tom asks, rubbing his other hand over his eyes, the knot of radio wires now resting on his chest. 

Santiago reaches out, traces a fingertip over the long scar on Tom's shoulder, the dimple where they dug the bullet out. "All the time, man. All the fucking time."

**Author's Note:**

> This morning there was a thing going around twitter asking what you were doing on this day in 2000. "February of 2000?" I thought. "I know exactly what I was doing in February of 2000. The same thing I am doing today. Writing fanfic about Ben Affleck." 
> 
> And since it has been twenty years, I'm celebrating on tumblr this month [in this tag](https://alakeeffectgirl.tumblr.com/tagged/damonaffleck-february).


End file.
